He'd do it all the same
by the bonesinger of yme-loc
Summary: When confronted with the weight of the world, would he do anything different? No. To do anything less would be a different man entire, and Hawke is nothing if not certain. [Post All That Remains]
1. An Empty House

The fist clenched white-knuckle tight about the banister flexed. The old oak, worn and smoothed and worn again creaked in protest. Cable-strung muscles bunched under tawny skinned arms, cinching tight to hold on to the pain/relief of distressed sinew and joints.

Merrill felt rather tiny at this moment. Oh, it wasn't an uncommon feeling, really, around Hawke. It was so easy to get caught up in the adventures and forget about everything else for a while but every now and then she'd have a funny moment of clarity with Hawke and it would hit her, again, like vertigo.

He was a big man. Well, all human men and most human women were big compared to an elf. But he was big compared to them, too. Among their friends he stood taller, only the peak of Sebastian's funny hair reached Hawke's forehead. But the Chantry Prince reminded her of elves with his build, all thin and tall and legs and arms to pull bowstrings.

Hawke reminded her of a stag she saw when she was a child, riding the Aravels between camps. A whole herd of deer was in a little glen by the weather-beaten track, and when one of the Aravels slipped a wheel, they'd stopped to replace it. The deer never moved though, alert and watching the whole time and ready for flight. And at the edge of the glen, on a little bit of rock and dirt was the stag of the herd. Her father had pointed it out. Sixteen points, he had said, and she gazed at the wonderful long antlers on its proud head.

She had watched it for a long time, that stag, as it stared back motionless. She even pretended he saw her, the little elvhen girl that peeked out through a gap in the canvas. All the deer in that glen, all ready to run with their thin little bodies. And that stag, up on his rock, thick ruff of fur so regal around his neck, all four legs planted and ready to fight. So much bigger and tougher than the others.

Once, she wondered if the stag would've fought the hunters if they had tried to take a deer or two.

"Merrill?" the whispered name snapped her from her remembrance, and she colored a little that her mind had wandered so much. Hawke was half-turned, looking back at her over a broad shoulder. She hadn't been _trying_ to sneak up on him. It just sometimes happened that way with how she walked.

Her presence revealed, she closed the distance to place a slim hand on his broad arm, letting him know with touch that she is there. He doesn't move or even seem to notice.

He didn't need to explain anything. She felt it already. The place felt echoey. Hollow. Bodahn was out and Sandal was off in some nook being Sandal. For once even Grey was being quiet, curled up in front of the fire.

The Hawke Estate without Leandra was quite without life.

Which sounded a lot worse when she thought of it that way.

But…nothing that simple as his mother being murdered was enough to get Hawke this incensed. That was a nice word to describe him: Varric had taught her it during one of his late-night stories. Merrill had played the word around in her head, said it aloud, and liked the spicy flavor of it. It matched Hawke, a hot and slow-burning word like fireplace embers.

It wasn't hard to find the real reason. A corner of stained parchment stuck out of one of his fists, crinkled up against the banister. A letter. And not one she had seen.

Isabela couldn't write or wouldn't. She had come by alone with a crate full of wine and that was her way of dealing with things.

Sebastian had said he would pray for Leandra and the look on his face said it wouldn't be just once.

Fenris hadn't said much, but the hand on Hawke's shoulder when they were underneath Kirkwall said enough.

Aveline had written, and dropped by too, that was her way of handling things.

Varric wrote too, because that's what Varric did, and whatever he had written (Hawke hadn't shown her) had left Hawke laughing and crying together.

But who else would write -

The answer was obvious before she thought it.

Anders, of course. She saw so little of the other wayward mage these days. It had been almost three years since the Deep Roads and in all that time Hawke hadn't ever gone out looking for the man or even asked about him. But Ander's manifestos showed up now and again, usually caught by Bodahn or Merrill, if she was visiting, and used as kindling.

"Hawke-" she said slowly, softly, almost a whisper. The air was so still and so quiet it was like she shouted anyway.

"Hawke, we know Anders. He likes kittens and freedom but even he wouldn't support anything like…that."

She was sort of guessing, now. Merrill had no real idea _what_ was in the letter, and considering how the two men had parted after the Deep Roads, it wouldn't take much to set Hawke off. Especially now.

"Of course. He wouldn't." The grind of his voice was a low grumble she could feel through his arm. His lovely voice, that could sing the wildest Ferelden ballads and boom through the whole Estate was choked out and low.

"That's what this says. He wouldn't. It's awful, he says. A monstrosity. A travesty. Something that should never happen. Proof, of course, that the Templars are pointless." She takes in a breath, ready to offer a reason, but Hawke beats her to it.

"I'm not mad about that. No. It's like him to twist this to his own ends. No. I expect that. What I can't get. What I can't let past. Is how he doesn't see it." Hawke let out a mix of a snort and snarl.

"He's no different from that animal. All so sure of themselves. So righteous. So right. He'd do it too, and call it _Justice_. In the name of whatever twisted agenda he has he'd cut down an innocent woman and mourn the necessity of it but _he'd do it all the same_ if it would earn him even one _iota_ of benefit. If even _one_ person could look at the slaughter he caused and say 'this is fine', Anders would do it. I know him. I see it in him."

Hawke was panting now, mouth half open, like a dog left in the sun.

"I would _kill_ him. I _want_ to kill him. I've barely tolerated him being in my city since the Deep Roads. Every night, just knowing he was down there somewhere in his filthy hovel, plotting something. It makes it hard to sleep. My city! The mages and Templars are already pulling it in two, and down underneath the bones of the towers is a maniac with a tinderbox. Just waiting for it all to go."

This was more than Hawke's mother, Merrill realized. Of course, it was also about Leandra because after something that horrible - she shuddered even thinking of it - it would taint everything. But this was also about his sister. About the Deep Roads, about Kirkwall, about _everything_. In a vivid flash, she suddenly _felt_ what it was to be Hawke, just then. It wasn't any kind of magical silliness, it wasn't some kind of bloodmagic, it was just…she'd been close to the man for long enough, and he wasn't the most closed of people, even if he liked to pretend he was.

He looks out at an empty house as hollow as its meaning is, now. Arms bulging with muscle from so many hours swinging swords and so much manual labor that can crack skulls and pull a dragon apart and all that smooth straining skill completely _unable to do anything_. All his strength and all his will and everything is being pulled apart. He was always the oldest; the elder brother. He was the one who was meant to protect his little brother and sister. Even if Carver begrudged him it. That was who he was. The strong core of the family. The knight in shining armor who would always, _always_ be there for his kid brother, his baby sister. To look after his mother. All of that gone. All of it a lie. All of it a failure. The world bearing down on his shoulders, crushing him down to his knees under the weight of so many lives and so many troubles that no-one no-one cares about. He feels the Qunari pressure like a dry-rot cancer worming through his guts, the ever-present fear, no, _terror_ that he never lets out that any day those grey-skinned freaks would decide in their alien minds that the whole city needed to _burn_ and then what? He couldn't save his brother, couldn't protect his sister, couldn't guard his mother. His whole family, one by one. All dropping away. All his strength and all his muscle and all his planning and all his focus and they keep falling away one by one. His friends, too. Each one of them breaking in their own way. Fenris falling deeper and deeper into drink. Aveline locked away behind red tape and bureaucracy. Anders the abomination, the ticking clock, the slow-burning fuse. And Merrill. Innocent, fragile Merrill, who wasn't really either of the two. Merrill, who slits her arms and hands and treads that razor-edge every time she summons up her magic. Merrill, who is almost-family but can't be more, because to become close to Garrett Hawke is to invite disaster. Merrill, who is slipping away from him like everyone else, because he cares about her and cannot watch her become a daemon too. So he is rough and he is harsh and he is blunt, and he doesn't disguise the distaste in his expression when she does her magic. He doesn't mince his words and he keeps her at arm's length. He takes her heritage that should be hers and locks it away despite the futile heat behind her eyes and words that choke her throat because _he is Hawke and he has to protect_. Even when it isn't wanted. Even if it costs him everything.

This is how it is to be Garrett Hawke. This is the fury and the despair and the wrath that twists his hands around the banister. That hardens his face to granite calm. That burns and burns and leaves nothing but ashes.


	2. Author's Note

Hello.

It's me, the bonesinger.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed what little there was on offer.

Don't let the status of this story fool you - while it is flagged as 'Incomplete', it is functionally 'Complete' as, at current, I have no plans on writing any further, but this was also originally intended to be a longer running, and/or more coherent work.

This can change at any moment's notice, depending on how inspiration strikes. Or, alternatively, how I procrastinate.


End file.
